


The mountains are calling and I must go

by whetherwoman



Category: Little Women Series - Louisa May Alcott
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Epistolary, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-14 23:01:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13018011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whetherwoman/pseuds/whetherwoman
Summary: Dear Dan,It’s been a long time since we’ve heard from you.





	The mountains are calling and I must go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morganmuffle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganmuffle/gifts).



> So much thanks to Mags for fantastic beta assistance!
> 
> Title is a quote from John Muir.

Dear Dan,

We were all so glad to receive your letter! The Lakota camp by the river sounds amazing, and Mother is so glad the Indians are being kind to you. She doesn’t say much, you know, at least not to me because she still thinks I’m in leading-strings. But I can tell it is a relief for her to know you are among friends, even so far away from us. Also, please write more soon about how little Running Deer is doing, and whether his leg is healing! I had to run over to Nan's office and read that part to her, of course, and she was in gales of laughter over your description of how he cut himself a hole in the back of the teepee and hopped away on his one good leg to escape Spotted Bird’s ministrations. She wanted to know if you could send some of Spotted Bird’s medicinal leaves in your next letter, but of course it would crumble to dust by the time it arrived. It does take such a long time for your letters to get here. I know you write as frequently as you can, but it would be awfully reassuring, you know, to Mother, if you were able to write just a little more often.

You’re going to laugh at me, but I must say it: I’m worried about you. We all are, but there was something about your last letter that seemed a little strange. I can almost hear you say I’m imagining things and to stop acting so missish. But tell me if there’s anything wrong, or if there’s anything I can do or send to you, won't you? I’m not a child anymore, though I know everyone thinks of me that way. But you’ve never been like the others, Danny. You’ve never tried to keep things from me or lied to me. You’ve always trusted me, because you know I trust you. I’ll listen to you, and find a way to help if you need me, or just stay out of it if that’s what you need too. You remember that I guessed that you’d killed a man, even when you weren’t going to tell me. That never made me think any differently of you, not a bit. If there’s anything at all you just feel like you need to tell someone, you can always write me. Just think about it, and know that I’ll always be

Your friend,

Ted

* * *

Dear Dan,

It’s been a long time since we’ve heard from you. I know you must have so much to occupy yourself there, rounding up the prairie dogs or building a house from river mud, and must have very little time for letter writing. But please, if you do get this letter, send me something to let me know you’re well? I have to admit, I can’t keep from thinking of the last time we went so many months without hearing from you. Even if something like that has happened again, Dan, please just tell me! I won’t tell anyone, even Mother or Father, if you don’t want me to. But you shouldn’t have to bear this alone. If something has happened, I mean, and you’re not just busy.

I should tell you, I told Rev. Phillips about you. Not that it was you, I mean, just your story, and about Blair and Mason and how you had to lie low for a while. Don’t be upset, I know you wouldn’t want someone you’ve never met knowing your story, but I had to talk to someone. And you’d like Rev. Phillips—he lives in town but he rides his bicycle out here almost every week, and he and Father work in the garden while they talk. Rev. Phillips says he thinks better when he’s sweating, and he can hoe from one fence to the other when he gets into a good piece of ethical philosophy. And he has the loudest laugh—he sounds like old Toby the donkey, do you remember? And it’s not rude to say so, because he said it himself. The first time I heard him laugh I had never heard anything like it, I must have looked a picture! But he just looked at me and said, “The only creatures on God’s green earth with a laugh like that are donkeys and myself, don’t you think?” After that I couldn’t hold it in and laughed as loud as a donkey myself, and he laughed right along with me. 

Anyway, I didn’t tell him your name, just that it had happened to a friend of mine. I had to tell someone, Danny—it’s been weighing on me, the more I think about it. I do still believe what I told you, I know that if you killed a man then he deserved it. But just thinking, lately, about whether you’re all right and what you might be doing—it’s been worrying me, that’s all. Rev. Phillips said a good many smart things I won’t bore you with, but he also said to pray about it. So I just wanted you to know that I’m praying every night, that you’re healthy in mind, body, spirit and heart.

Your friend,

Teddy

* * *

Dear Danny,

I know now this will never reach you, but I had to write anyway. Hearing of your death has been so hard. I know you went West knowing your story could end this way, and knowing you as I do, you probably gave thanks with your last breath for a death defending the people you loved. 

Father says we must trust that you find the world to come even better and brighter than this one, but how can I believe you were happy to leave the plants and animals and nature of this world you loved so well? Rev. Phillips says we can believe in the glory of heaven, while still wanting a few more days here on earth. I can trust and believe in God’s love, but no matter how much I tell myself you’re in a better place, I wish you’d stayed in this place a little longer. 

Do you remember how we used to say prayers together, when I was just a baby? Now I’ll be saying prayers with lots of people. Don’t laugh, but I’m going to be a preacher. I don’t pretend to never have doubts or make mistakes, but Mother told me about the good chaplain who was there for you when you were lowest, and how much his help meant to you. If I can be that for somebody else’s Danny—well, I know my work will be worth something then, that’s all. 

So I guess this is goodbye, or the best goodbye I can give. There will always be a part of me that expects to see you turn up in the field, brown and smiling with some new toad or rock to show me. God bless you, my Danny. 

As always, I am 

your Teddy


End file.
